Tuesday, December 16, 2014

The Imposter Cat

Cats. They are a feature of probably any life in one form or another, but I do not find them a particularly pleasant one in mine. I do not wish them ill and can appreciate their lithe beauty and pleasing purr, but I don’t want a cat of my own and I do not want to babysit someone else’s cat. I, however, am a woman of anxious obligation, so when Phil asked me to feed and check on his cat, Vivian, while he was away with his daughter, Daisy, for five days I couldn’t say no.

It really wasn’t that big of a deal. All he wanted me to do was feed Vivian, change her litter and make sure she didn’t get locked out of the house.

So fine.

The first evening I arrived at Phil’s house I hesitated before negotiating my way up the nearly 100 stairs to his front door. I hesitated because while in the daylight the house gave an aura of quaintness with its English garden, overgrown lilac tree, shake shingles, sunny yellow siding, climbing ivy and draping white flower boxes, at dusk those same features transformed into something somehow sinister. It was like my version of the gingerbread house, enticing you with its goodies even though you suspected there was a wicked wizard waiting inside.

But that was ridiculous, I told myself, as I began up the stairs, stopping short when I noticed out of the corner of my eye what I presumed was Vivian, who looked surprisingly scrawny compared to the last time I had seen her. She was also noticeably skittish compared to her formerly friendly self. What the hell had Phil done to Vivian?

“You poor, neglected thing! How’d you get out here?” I asked Vivian in that voice one instinctively assumes when speaking to kittens or babies, a voice I would otherwise hate. In addition to her physical state, I was surprised to see her outside. Phil told me she’d be inside and cause me no trouble.

Well, Vivian did cause me trouble. She would not come no matter how saccharine my tone and it took numerous trips up and down those  
godforsaken stairs in search of something to entice her with before I was finally able to coax her finicky ass into the house. It literally took a couple hours when all was said and done.



I did not come out of the ordeal unscathed.

Of course I didn’t.

I tripped and slipped down the stairs I was forced to repeatedly traverse, up and down like some kind of pyramid slave. I skinned my knees, scrapped my hands and cut my chin on a crystal doorknob when I missed a step in my haste to get Vivian inside before she got away again, which she did. I cried out of pure frustration and by the time the damn cat was safely inside I was an emotional, physical wreck.

I told Vivian I hated her and cursed the ground Phil walked on.

When it came time to pick Phil and Daisy up from the airport and I told them about the Vivian fiasco, he was confused by my description of his beloved cat.

“That doesn’t sound like Vivian. If anything, Vivian is overweight and she doesn’t like going outside.”

“That’s weird because the Vivian inside your house right now is anorexic and I kept finding her outside and had to trap her to get her back inside, numerous times!”

This was when I heard Daisy say under her breath, “Uh oh, that sounds like Not-Vivian”.

"What is Not-Vivian?" I asked.

Apparently, there was an imposter Vivian-look-alike feral cat that hung around Phil’s house and liked to impersonate Vivian to get food. Phil and Daisy had been fooled by this imposter before and thus had gotten in the habit of referring to the wild cat as Not-Vivian in order to differentiate her from the real Vivian. 

They hadn’t seen Not-Vivian in a while and figured she’d moved on to new hunting grounds so didn’t think to warn me about her.



This then left the question, if Not-Vivian was the cat that by now had made itself at home in Phil’s house, where was the real Vivian? What did Not-Vivian do to Vivian?

Tuesday, December 2, 2014

The Sewers

They were raised in The Sewers amidst rats and cockroaches, surrounded by diseased splendor and crowned with a halo of lice. This was fine when they didn't know any better, when they were absorbed with the business of survival. There was no energy left with which to consider the social injustice of their circumstances. Those few, who were consumed with resentment, did not have the education to articulate their inner turmoil and wouldn’t know what to do about it anyway. There were no advocates.



It wasn't until they got older that they realized The Sewers was a derogatory name for the ghetto where they lived, but by then what was the difference? They didn’t care. A great many inherited their parents' addictions, and when a person is addicted nothing else matters. It is a way of life, where there is no dignity; where human beings copulate and defecate in the street like stray dogs, and toddlers are prostituted for a hit of heroin.




The neglected offspring of these addicts, it should be understood, were not seen as casualties or victims of their parents’ substance abuse and poverty; rather, they were a dehumanized, negative consequence, like delirium tremens, hepatitis, track marks or eviction notices. As such, the sewer children were treated with the same avoidance associated with any unwanted side effect of pathology. Besides, even if the addicts and degenerate alcoholics wanted to properly nurture their kids, they couldn’t because crystal meth kills the ability to parent and alcohol is a destructive virus.





The lack of parenting meant the sewer kids had to fend for themselves. But this again was fine – when you are born into a thing you become accustomed to it, in the same way these kids were habituated to the stink of raw sewage, or the ache of hunger in the pit of their emaciated stomachs.

Initially, they grew up vaguely aware of The Uplands where affluent metropolitans led lavish lives, discarding in a moment what took months to gather through scheming, begging and stealing. Over time, this vague awareness of something better developed into a kind of chronic longing.

There, however, was no sympathy from The Uplands; no charitable handouts. The filthy urchins from The Sewers were treated as harshly as all vermin are treated. No one coaxes rodents from the trash with gifts of love, nourishment and shelter.




Eventually, in this cauldron of contempt, indifference and the constant fight to survive, the chronic longing progressed into acute, drug-fuelled, sociopathic rage, and transformed the innocence of babes into the seething hatred of caged animals, who have suddenly become aware of their unjust confinement, but more importantly that their shackles were not in fact an impossible reality shared by all.

And it was this enraged, snarling animal, bent on taking the freedom and riches denied it, who clawed its with bloodied paws out of The Sewers and into The Uplands.


Sunday, November 30, 2014

The Ice Queens (Sonnet)

Fine crystal dancers twirl from obscure skies,
To pirouette amongst dark, barren trees.
And dress the land in elegant disguise,
Carried upon winter's crisp Arctic breeze.

Dreary life is covered in pristine white,
That gives refuge to filth and dirty shame.
Exposed guilt enjoys a reprieve from sight,
As frosty ballerinas stake their claim.

But when their performance is complete,
And the world sits back in quiet awe,
The Ice Queens take a bow and then retreat,
To reveal truth as snow begins to thaw.

Purity soon melts completely away,
To again betray the damp, old decay.

Saturday, November 29, 2014

The Fall of the Poser Ape-Man

According to evolutionary theory, man shares a common ancestor with chimpanzees, diverging into separate lineages some millions of years ago. Unfortunately, and I’m sorry to have to report this, not all the men made the divergent cut, which in itself is alarming enough because it means they still enjoy the same status as Homo sapiens even though they are dangerous beasts and DO NOT belong in the same human family.

Worse yet is that these ape men have infiltrated every rung of the social hierarchy and not just the lower ghetto levels where you would rightly expect to see them. They are down there of course, terrorizing, molesting and rapping women and children, stealing from them, exploiting them, psychologically abusing them, beating the shit out of them on a regular basis and generally acting like their physically aggressive brothers in the wild, the alpha male chimpanzee. So that is bad enough, but at least they are relatively easy to spot if that careful but cunning shark, Justice, EVER decides to do something about them.

Most alarming of all, however, but only because he isn’t as easy to spot as his significantly less impressive brethren, is the predatory alpha chimp roaming the upper echelons of society. These are clever assholes, disguised as paunchy peacocks in glittery cloaks of power, credentials, misguided intelligence, wealth, fame and charisma – disguises that work to divert everyone’s attention from their clandestine, sleazy motives and crimes.

They strut around fooling people, dazzling them with their shiny objects, bloated conceit and self-important blethering as they spout off clichés and personal sound-bites, engage in shameless self-branding and otherwise make bombastic statements about their own worth and abilities as pretend human beings. But make no mistake, they aren’t humans. They are greasy blobs of greed and disgusting self-gratification to an excess far beyond anything most of us could ever imagine. Those they do not fool – who see them for the repugnant freaks of nature they are – the chimps are quite good at silencing one way or another, at least historically.

And while these narcissistic ape men may not have evolved along with the few good real men they masquerade as, their top-heavy egos CERTAINLY have grown beyond the confines of their skull, which as karma would have it is often their ultimate downfall.

The main problem with these morbidly obese egos is that they give the egomaniac the illusion that he is an invincible god and that his desires and actions are above reproach or the conventions of civilized society, including the law. When that sense of entitlement is paired with the urges of your typical smooth-talking, phallic-centered ape-man, particularly a seemingly ingenious one in a control position, no female is safe.

This then should be of concern to everyone because when the girls aren’t safe, society as a whole isn’t safe. The ape men must be stopped and put in the cages where they belong. To stop them, though, you must first have an eye for the signs of their presence, a nose for their stench and an ear for their sound, paying particular attention to the chatter that invariably swirls around them, especially chatter the chimp handlers are quick to discredit, often with the by now dull and uninspired “slut or nut” defence.

Or perhaps the chimp himself, with a delusional belief in his right to do whatever the hell he pleases to whomever he pleases, will take matters into his own hands with an absurdly grandiose and rambling Facebook post that has the audacity to compare the drivel that is Fifty Shades of Grey with the literary brilliance that is anything Lynn Coady writes. How dare he. Fifty Shades of Grey? Really? This is the idiocy he aspires to? Filthy animal. He deserves to be “hate-fucked” by Satan’s demons for all eternity for that cross-reference alone.

I digress.

You see the same engorged ego in the crack-smoking mayor who thinks his “unique” apology is somehow a superpower that magically erases criminal behavior with a simple “sorry”, the senator who makes false expense claims, apparently believing the taxpayer is his personal piggy bank, the world-famous actor who drugs and rapes a series of women over the course of many years and gets away with it even though everyone knows perfectly well he’s doing it.

You also see it in the police officer who sexually harasses a female civilian and “kids” with his buddies about gutting her, the successful comedian who generates big laughs with rape jokes, the minister of pretty much anything, whether church or government, who uses his position to sexually impose himself on his tyrannized “inferiors” and the physician who likewise uses his position to sexually attack and coerce female patients.

You see it in the affluent, highly articulate, best-selling author, with the steady pulse of a psychopath and a disturbing degree of clout over the brains of his goat-like followers, who elevates himself to the point of God, proclaiming all religion is a lie, every believer is stupid, there in fact is no God, and nothing divine to awaken the human spirit and enlighten the human mind. But wait! Never fear! For the bargain price of $32, you don't need God because HE can wake up your soul with his book; the same soul he simultaneously says doesn’t exist. That’s the thing about these chimps: They get away, without remorse, with doing and saying WHATEVER nonsensical thing that occurs to them in a lightening flash of vile epiphany.

You furthermore see a grotesquely swollen and diseased ego in the corrupt venture capitalist, with a string of dewy young minnows on the fishing line, who made his billions with dirty oil and shady deals, and boasts it all came from hard work, implying the rest of humanity doesn’t work hard. Don’t ask HIM for a charitable “handout”. Sweat harder! The downtrodden masses deserve everything they suffer, as far as he is concerned, and with great glee flogs those beneath him with another lash of his diamond-studded whip.




But don’t worry too much. Nothing lasts forever, even though it often feels that way when injustice and barbarism seem to be the predominant flavour of the ages. Even so, with patience, one day the chimp will be taken off guard and instead of a pretty little minnow at the end of his line, he will inadvertently snag a shark and get her attention. And that shark, the shrewd beauty that she is, will sense the potentially gratifying taste of chimp blood, and with a slash of her teeth reveal his true hideous form and rip the smug right off his stunned face.



In the meantime, the ape-men are toppling over under the extreme weight of their monster egos and getting tangled up in their own nets in spectacular Darwin Award style. It is truly something awesome to behold. They are losing their jobs, their health, their money, their people, their status, their allure, and their freedom.

Some are even being returned to their mothers.




Sunday, November 16, 2014

Cursed Motels & Blessed Squalor

Jenna was adamant she would NOT be leaving Vancouver with me in the morning and she certainly would not be going anywhere near the north coast community I was heading.

“I will NEVER set foot in that bog EVER again!!” she vowed with the kind of passion she normally reserves for her hair.

I merely smiled. I know my daughter well enough to know there is no point in trying to sway her from her ideas with my own passionate pleas. So I simply said, “Fine”. Total acceptance. Very Zen of me.


Fourteen hours later we had left the city and were well on our way with an unabashed Jenna in the front passenger seat and Lizzy and DJ mercifully occupied with their various electronic devices in the back.

Already Jenna’s expected unexpected presence was interfering with my itinerary, which is usually the case when she decides to tag along on these road trips at the last minute. I don’t drive fast enough for her, I stop too often and my choice of hotel is never nice enough for her liking. Actually, she would rather I drove the straight 20 hours to our final destination without stopping at all but that’s where I draw the line. I am not driving that long and I’m definitely not trusting her to drive.

Jenna has been able to bend me to her will since the day she was born but not this time, which is what I told her: “We are staying overnight in Prince George at the same hotel I always stay at and that’s final!”

She merely smiled. She knows me well enough to know there is no point in trying to sway me. No need in pleading a case she knows she will ultimately win if she times her manipulation right.

She bided that time for maybe the first 7 hours of driving, a few hours after the last of a series of interesting conversations that inevitably turned into trivial but feisty grievances, which then turned into minor disagreements, perhaps a raised voice or two, and then finally into our signature reconciliation and resultant laughter. It's our normal mother/daughter cycle. Anyway, as I've said, it was a while after one of these cycles that Jenna began her seemingly innocuous campaign: “Mom, do you want more money?”

What kind of question?  

“Well, I’m not a self-depriving Buddhist so what do you think?”

“I think you do want more money. One way to do that is to save money. Do you want to save money?”

I looked at her suspiciously, “What are you getting at?”

“If you drive just a little further past Prince George you will save BIG money on the hotel. I found one – it’s clean, cheap and they have vacancies. What do you think?”

What did I think? That was irrelevant. I would like to say I stuck to my guns but I didn’t and kept driving past Prince George. By the time we arrived at this great money saving hotel it was nearing midnight. It was called Glen’s Motor Inn, which the name alone should have tipped me off that this was not the place for us since Glen was the name of my first stepfather, a drunk with a rage problem and a hypocritical predilection for Christian fundamentalism, but only when it suited him – NOT a fun combination. It was a sign.

Always heed the signs.

Unless the sign includes the name “Glen”. If it says “Glen” keep driving.

But alas only a select enlightened few ever take signs seriously, so I turned into Glen’s even as my inner voice stirred in protest.

Jenna’s voice,  on the other hand, vocally filled with dismay when she saw where we were going.

“Mom! What are you doing? This is some ghetto Chinese restaurant! This isn’t the hotel!”

Music blared so loud from this restaurant that it made my SUV bounce and I realized the “restaurant” was actually a bar. There was also a cold beer and wine store and loitering in front of this entire complex of hillbilly fun were clusters of riffraff, all of them inebriated and uninhibited. They were out looking for a good time and they had found it.



Jenna was horrified and the younger children terrified.

“No, Jenna, THIS is the hotel you pushed for, so here we are!”

I pointed to the signage, but not wanting to believe what her own eyes were telling her, Jenna quickly reread the online description. Sure enough the hotel featured a beer store, pub and Chinese restaurant. There was a picture – a nicer image than the one we were now witnessing, but it was the same place nonetheless.

I pulled into an empty spot right in front of a group of 5 or 6 men and women hooting and hollering, falling down, making lewd gestures and speaking in Drunkenese.



In the backseat Lizzy whispered that she was scared and DJ began to cry. In the front, Jenna exclaimed, “We can’t stay here! You’re not going in there are you??”

I took a deep breath and with every ounce of self-control I possessed did not lose it on her, even though she was the reason we were in this predicament in the first place. Instead, with a calm I did not feel, I opened the door, told the kids everything would be fine, I’d get us a room, and be right back. Everyone simmer down.

As soon as I shut the car door, I was treated to the rowdy slur of a drunk man hollering absurdities at me. I am familiar with Drunkenese though – it’s an ugly language – and know to ignore it.

Trying to converse with The Inebriated like this is like trying to reason with The Walking Dead. It can’t be done, there’s no real brain to work with, there’s a lot of repetition and if you get too close they slobber all over you. They also turn on you with a lightning speed that defies their otherwise retarded reflexes. One minute they love you, the next you’re a “stupid bitch”. They are a bunch of weakened souls who choose to cater to their weakness with booze rather than rise above it. In other words, I am not a fan of drunk people, in case that wasn't clear.



Oddly, despite my objective view that drunks are fools whose indecipherable insults and taunts don't deserve my attention, they still put me on edge, so it was with some anxiety already in the pit of my stomach that I walked past the slurs and into Glen's Motor Inn. That anxiety was in no way lessened, however, when upon entering the lobby, and closing the door on the jackasses outside, my senses were instantaneously slammed with the smell of cheap air freshener mixed with mildew, the teeth shattering vibrations of booming music from the pub next door, the strange stickiness on the counter where I set down my purse ,and the sight of the clerk who came shuffling in from a back door connected to the Cold Beer & Wine Store.

It appeared she was working both places and she was a sight to behold. She was an enormous hulk of a woman, half André the Giant, half Big Bird, with frizzy red hair, half-closed eyelids as if she was stoned, one missing front tooth and one gold tooth. The remainder of her teeth were in various stages of decay.

She addressed me with the kind of slowed speech and movement you see with people who never really learned to read and who spend most of their time in Jerry Springer type scenarios, the kind Dr. Phil likes to exploit.

Warning bells went off in my head. I did not want to stay there and I knew none of my children would stay there and yet I handed over a cash deposit, signed on the dotted line, took the key from André and in a daze, maneuvered up the two flights of stairs – no elevators at Glen’s – to the second floor.

As I heaved the door open my ears were immediately assaulted with the unmistakable sound of creaking – possibly breaking – bed springs and some chick in the throes of a fake orgasm. She was putting on quite the performance too. If my kids were with me they would have thought someone was killing her and would have been even more traumatized than they already were at that moment waiting in my vehicle, panicked that someone had taken their mother hostage and would come get them next. Perhaps somebody would.

As I continued down the hall in a trance, and the pig-like squeals of pseudo-ecstasy got louder and louder, along with the voice in my head screaming to turn and RUN, the word DISEASE flashed through my brain. And still (because I was tired and the thought of having to keep driving at that late hour was still slightly more objectionable than staying in this den of iniquity) I walked forward to room 234, which of course was directly beside the room that it would seem was rented by the hour.

When I entered the room, I might as well have been in the room next door. I could hear everything they were doing and as a consequence, feeling mildly nauseous, sat on the bed, which crinkled underneath me. The mattress was covered in plastic. That was IT for me! I snapped out of my trance, jumped off the bed and went in search of André. I wanted my money back.

She was confused by the request. I told her with the music blaring, the drunk zombies outside and the prostitution ring they had running, there was no way I could let my kids stay there. She went silent trying to figure out this apparently bizarre turn of events. No one had ever asked such a thing of her before.

Finally she offered to move me to a different room as if that would make ANY difference. No. I just wanted my money and I’d be off. So, unable to think of any other way to persuade me to stay she reluctantly handed me back my money and robotically said, “Thanks for staying at Glen’s,” without a hint of sarcasm.

I stared at her for a good 30 seconds before replying, “You’re welcome”.

She smiled. It was weird.

The children were relieved when I returned to them without a key, but not so relieved when they noticed my tears.

“Oh my god!! What’s wrong with you??” Jenna grabbed my shoulder, alarmed, until she realized I was laughing, the kind of laughter where you can’t talk, the kind that’s contagious, where everyone in the car also erupts into laughter and they don’t know why. It was a good thing too because if not for the laughter I don’t know what I would have done to Jenna, who at the time I held responsible for the entire fiasco.

We didn’t find another vacancy until 2 o’clock in the morning, in a literally rat infested motel in the middle of nowhere. And it wasn’t funny or at least it shouldn’t have been.

“It’s a good thing I have a sense of humor,” I angrily whispered to Jenna through the darkened motel room, over the younger children’s sleeping heads.



In the background was the sound of scuttling feet running through the walls and I was wary of the other shady characters staying at the motel, including the guy managing the place. I did not feel safe and felt the urge to get mad at someone, anyone. But Jenna didn’t answer. She was sleeping too.



Even Lucky, our Chihuahua was sleeping at the foot of the bed, all of us cocooned there together, everyone else evidently feeling safe enough to sleep. And just like that my anger dissipated and I smiled, feeling like André who smiles when superficially it doesn't seem like there is anything to smile about. I smiled not because it was funny, but because for the first time in that long gong-show day, even amidst my fatigue, insomnia, unease and all the other million things that were wrong in my life, I thought how blessed am I?



My Blessings



Monday, October 13, 2014

Parenting Anonymous

I had a problem. I was powerless over my children and my life had become unmanageable. I needed Parenting Anonymous. Signs of my pathological parenting surrounded me and I could no longer live in denial. The crayon was on the wall.

Every wall in my home, in fact, was decorated by various abstract pieces done in wax crayon, indelible marker and finger paint. These pieces were not framed, but were rather done mural style directly on the walls courtesy of our prolific in-house artist, 2-year-old Lizzy Ann.

She was beginning to create a name for herself too, as her art branched out to other homes. Aunty Myrtle, Grandma Rose and The Olsons next door all had a few pieces of her work. Some people, such as Uncle George, didn't even know they owned a Lizzy Ann because occasionally she’d do her work discreetly in a closet or in places where portly people like Uncle George couldn’t bend down to see. Evidently, my parenting problem was affecting not just me, but also the home decor of those I loved.

Further signs of my problem were the tampered electronics and plumbing issues with which I had to contend. As Lizzy busied herself with artistic endeavors, 4-year-old DJ developed an interest in electronic engineering and apprenticeship plumbing. He attempted at various times to refurbish my DVD player, VCR and PC; as well as refit a bathroom toilet using his Rescue Heroes submarine. When the submarine never resurfaced from the flooding depths of the toilet bowl, I had no choice but to call in a professional plumber to save the drowning toy.

In addition, although I tried my best to cover it up, evidence of my bribery binges was strewn throughout the house, further attesting to my parenting problem. Empty Fisher Price and Hot Wheel packaging littered the halls and the toy boxes overflowed with abandoned toys the children got bored of as quickly as they got them. It became harder to deny my problem when I realized the clerk at the toy store knew my son by name and what brand of toy he preferred.

Yet another indication of my problem was the high tolerance level the children had attained for the briberies of toys and candy. The more I gave in, the more they demanded. Eventually I had to give them three times as much as I once had to in order to get the same behavioral result I desired. Consequently, I discovered that as their tolerance level for briberies increased, my bank balance decreased. Combine that with the expense of replacing household electronics, as well as calling in expensive plumbers, and it seemed that my parenting problem was not only hurting the ones I loved, but also my financial bottom line.

Nearly every aspect of my existence had been impacted in one way or another by my parenting problem. To others I downplayed the impact it had on my life. However, it was impossible to hide my unkempt appearance and blood shot eyes from lack of sleep due to late night kitchen runs for water and jam toast. Furthermore, when I went to speak to someone the hoarseness of my voice gave me away. It appeared that I had a chronic case of laryngitis thanks to the children's incessant requests to hear me repeatedly growl in my best Big Bad Wolf voice: "Little Pig, Little Pig LET ME COME IN!"

I was finally forced to face my problem when my husband, John, confronted me with proof of my diseased parenting. It was after 11 p.m. and the children slept sprawled out in the marital bed as I served John a late supper of chicken nuggets, Goldfish crackers and carrot sticks. I could sense something was bothering him by his silence, but nonetheless was startled when he suddenly slammed his sippy cup down, sloshing chocolate milk all over the table.

He told me he felt like I had lost control of the children. He asked if I had even noticed that our new leather ottoman had mysteriously acquired little puncture wounds all over one side of it. He said it was the final straw and demanded to know what had happened to the recently purchased item. He also wanted to know why he was drinking out of a sippy cup at 11 o'clock at night.

I claimed I didn't have any answers for him, but inwardly presumed Lizzy Ann had something to do with the redesigned ottoman since she was our resident artist. DJ was too busy feeding his grilled cheese and Lego sandwich to the VCR to bother with ottomans.

No, this looked like Lizzy's work, I thought to myself as I knelt down beside John to get a better look at what he considered to be an act of vandalism. Apparently, Lizzy was venturing into some sort of contemporary art. I tried to justify myself and minimize John’s concerns as best I could, but he stomped away in frustration to sleep in the playroom using a doll blanket as a pillow. In hindsight, both my parenting problem and the cracks in my marriage were obvious. But not at the time. Ignorance is a blindfold.

Anyway, the mystery of the leather ottoman was solved the morning after John’s confrontation, when I caught Lizzy red handed. During the endless process of picking up the toys that constantly made their way into the living room, I happened to catch Lizzy intently marching towards the ottoman with a ballpoint pen clutched in her hand.

I managed to grab the pen from her just as she was about to plunge it into the “valued” piece of furniture. I told her "naughty" and then went into the kitchen to put the pen on top of a shelf where she couldn't reach it. When I went back into the living room to see what else Lizzy was getting into I let out a gasp of alarm at what I discovered.

There she was furiously stabbing the ottoman with a SECOND ballpoint pen. She must have had a secret stash somewhere. When I ordered her to stop she only briefly looked at me before basically shrugging her shoulders and resuming her brutal attack on the ottoman with even more fervor. She totally disregarded me as she focused completely on trying to get in as many stabs as she could before the pen was confiscated a second time. She looked like a crazed murderer determined to inflict as much pain on her inanimate victim as possible.

In the middle of all this, DJ came running into the room to see what all the commotion was about. When he saw what Lizzy was doing he immediately cried out, "I want a turn!"

In my diseased mind, I reasoned that since the ottoman was already ruined, I might as well grant DJ his wish and let him have a try too. At that point I did not see that John had also been awoken by the commotion and was watching the whole proceedings with growing disbelief. He watched, incredulous, as I retrieved the first pen I had confiscated from Lizzy and handed it to DJ.

It wasn’t until I had settled myself on the couch to passively survey the carnage and mayhem that I noticed John standing there and witnessed the look of utter horror on his face. Divorce would inevitably follow but first things first: My name is Lala and I am a Parentoholic. 

I’m in recovery now. It’s an ongoing process.

Thursday, October 2, 2014

Rape Culture: Feigned Ignorance Doesn't Exempt Complicity

In today’s information age we are exposed at an unprecedented rate to horrific accounts of rape.  It is making some of us uncomfortably aware. And while ignorance may be bliss, it is only blissful to the ignorant. To the socially conscious, to the street-wizened and to the victimized, ignorance is a tool of oppression and a means of propagating inhumanity. 




This awareness – that our blissful ignorance has been complicit in unimaginable misery to a big chunk of the human race – is often coupled with a compulsion to act; in other words work, and possibly unpleasant, frustrating, unblissful work; hence the ignorance is bliss thing. It’s less work to blame the victim. But once you know, you know. You can no longer cuddle up in your cozy ignorance.




In the past if you were raped, few people heard about it, unless it was a particularly sensational or gruesome story. As for you, the anonymous one, you were more or less condemned to suffer in the privacy of your own head, with only the pain of your battered body to remind you that you were indeed a human being and not an inanimate object meant for male consumption and communal use, like a public toilet.

Then again maybe that really was all you were worth. Perhaps you deserved it. The societal messages that surrounded you certainly suggested you deserved it or worse yet “wanted” it.

But you didn’t deserve it and you absolutely did not want it.



It seemed the only way to reconcile this cognitive dissonance between what you were told and what you knew was acquiescence, suppression, denial, rationalization or a big ass bottle of booze and a bevy of pills. There was no easy therapy.

If all else failed, a self-applied noose around the neck and a suicide note would take care of the problem. You were already dead inside anyway, and no one seemed to notice that. They didn’t know about your ordeal nor did they care to know. You were utterly alone.

You were also ashamed.

You were ashamed because even though it conflicted with your reality, the culture and era in which you found yourself told you in subliminal and not so subliminal ways that not only did you want to be raped but you were MEANT to be raped.



All girls, in fact, were hardwired and physically formed to desire rape and used their sexuality to manipulate men into raping them. It wasn’t the man’s fault – he was just doing what the reptilian part of his brain told him to do. Men had no more control than a dog in heat over their natural urge to copulate with any accessible female they could get their molesting hands on, even if that female was a duck.

It was thus left up to women, who were NOT cursed to wander the planet with debilitating thoughts of ejaculation every 12 seconds, to act as bodyguards. Men were vulnerable and needed protection from their overwhelming impulses – impulses which could be triggered by virtually ANYTHING.

Nothing like a sexy gouty toe to tempt a guy.

The male libido was a handicap for men. Women, who did not possess this same handicap, were by default held accountable (because someone HAD to be) for whatever happened to female bodies, even as they were paradoxically prohibited from making choices that affected those SAME bodies.

If you were female and someone raped you, assaulted you, insulted you with gendered hate speech and rape jokes, or impregnated you, the only person you could blame was yourself – you should have been a better bodyguard.




The “good” women who covered their parts, averted their eyes and did as they were told were not a threat to the practice of NOT randomly raping people. These upstanding ladies were still raped mind you, just not as much, or so society was allowed to believe.

The “bad” women who had opinions, disagreed and dressed how they wanted based on personal style, fashion trends and comfort were fair game. Their appearances and mannerisms prodded at men’s fragile self-control like a fool prodding a rabid beast with a stick.

It was only a natural inevitability then that a man would succumb to his weakness and sexually impose himself on whoever or whatever (there was a guy who couldn’t control himself near a cow and was forced to marry her) inadvertently provoked his hypersensitive arousal.

Stupid people who goaded aggressive animals deserved what they got (although it’s hard to say how the cow provoked her rape. Was it her sexually stimulating “moo”?)

Consequently, accused “rapists” were seen as rape victims. They were lured to rape in the same way Eve lured Adam to defy God and eat from the Tree of Knowledge. Females were responsible for the evils of men because at the heart of the matter, even though women were the inferior gender, feminine sexuality was a tool of mind control. It didn’t make sense, but when it came to rapists it didn’t have to make sense.

Men were so afraid of this magical feminine power which tricked rapists into committing rape that in certain places women were forced to hide their wicked femaleness under loose fitting clothing, in some cases to the point of wearing heavy black cloaks over their heads like body bags.



Apparently the thinking here was (still is) that females lost their power when men couldn’t objectively see their femininity, when they blended into the background like black ghosts floating before a white sky.

However, there did remain a few astute men, who although may have been blind to stark contrasts, nevertheless understood covering something with a sheet did not literally make the thing disappear. The thing still existed – it still had genitalia – and women were still raped.


But again, since all women were genetically programmed to be consenting whores who fooled men into raping them, rape was not technically rape anyway. There was no such thing as consensual rape, even evidently if one of the people “consenting” was not consenting willingly.

No did not mean no.

Besides, everyone understood that genuine rape was only committed by alcoholic degenerates, drug addicts and psychopaths. Normal men with jobs didn’t rape.

But some of us understand things differently now.

And while the aforementioned attitudes towards rapists and their victims obviously persist today in our, what has been dubbed, “rape culture”, the difference is that what was once ignored is now being examined. This piece of seemingly fresh meat has been kicked over to reveal its rot and the maggots are scattering.

We are seeing things we’ve never seen before.

Just as advances in science and technology have revealed errors in many other once widely held human manufactured beliefs, these advancements have also, perhaps unintentionally, revealed gross misconceptions and willful denials regarding rape.

There is no hiding from these realities (albeit often misinterpreted realities).
The shared knowledge travels along the information highway faster than a rapist can find an alibi or zip up his pants.

Any despicable thing a person does can potentially be recorded by a passerby and shared with the world in the blink of an eye. This kind of reality monitoring by regular people is pushing human mental evolution to higher levels of consciousness where the air is better and the view significantly more expansive.

It is more difficult, although not impossible, to make the “she asked for it” defence when there is a video that’s gone viral of you and your buddies gang raping an unconscious girl or a girl who is fully conscious and can be heard, seen and felt screaming in terror and agony, begging for it to end.

It is also more difficult to argue rape was actually consensual sex when there is a corpse and a suicide “note” in the form of a Youtube vlog, which unequivocally conveys the message that the “sex” was not by consent but by force. If a girl would rather be dead than alive with the nightmare of her assault replaying in her head every breathing moment, how can any reasonable person say she “wanted it”?

It is furthermore harder to claim rape only happens to women who behave and dress provocatively when every day we are told of innocent children being even more barbarically violated than their older rape-victim counterparts. 

Then there are the countless women who are raped while minding their own business, walking down the street in anything but a seductive manner, or housed in the seclusion and “safety” of their own homes. Men are also raped.

And we won’t even go into how rape is used as a weapon of war and terrorism.

What is exceedingly clear from this steady stream of rape reporting and female shaming is that the criminal act of rape has little to do with the actions of the person who is raped. The rapist can choose NOT to sexually assault people it’s a simple as that.

Rapists can walk away from the unconscious, semi-naked girl passed out on a sofa and it’s absurd to claim otherwise.

Despite the stupid myths surrounding rape culture, the mere sight of a girl, particularly one who is intoxicated, naked or partially clothed, does not literally suspend male freewill as all sense drains from his brain directly into his disgusting erection.

The human brain has evolved beyond its limbic system and does have access to higher levels of cognitive functioning. In other words, the male brain CAN make the decision to not rape someone despite the physical state of his body. Even rapists were trained as toddlers how to control their base urges.

Of course there will always be misogynists, fanatics and misguided apologists who will refuse to place the blame squarely on the rapist’s shoulders. They will continue to argue, as Nick Ross did, that “rape isn’t always rape”; the victim must take some responsibility. He likens a provocatively dressed female to a “sack of cash” left unguarded at the front door of a bank, or in the middle of a poorly secured airport.

Ah, sorry but NO. Giving in to the temptation of stealing a bag of unchaperoned money that does not breathe, feel pain, or have a brain is NOT the equivalent of forcing yourself on another human being who finds you repulsive. And even if you didn’t make her sick to her stomach – even if she was attracted to you – she STILL would not be interested in having you sexually assault her.

But none of that matters does it? Lowlifes and sadists who choose to think of rape as welcomed seduction are not, as a rule, impressed by pleas to a sense of humanity, video-recorded facts, expert and reason-based opinions, or eye witness testimonies that conflict with their depraved bias. But no one was going to enlighten those lesser evolved, narrow, concrete-minded animals anyway.

But don’t give up trying to sway them, because until a thing is dead there is always a grain of hope – no matter how unlikely – that a metamorphosis could occur and another step up the evolutionary ladder made.

For the higher evolved Homo sapiens, though, the ongoing accounts of rape and brutality torment the intellect and generate awareness. Ultimately, it is this awareness that revs up the enormous, slow-to-start, gas-guzzling engine of social change.




The epidemic rape stories are morbid, but they are also vital sources of fuel that must be mined, exported and consumed. This is the power of the people driving the engine.

Granted, it is not unanimously conceded rape is or ever was an epidemic, nor is it accepted across the board that an entire subculture exists around the social pathology of rape.

There remain those who choose to believe rape is nothing more than a minor nuisance that’s been blown out of proportion by radical feminism and mass media, with an agenda to either malign men or create sensationalized news stories for the sole purpose of increasing viewer and readership amongst the sheep-like masses.

But whether you believe a disease is a disease or the product of choice makes little difference to the disease’s progression. A carcinoma left unencumbered, undetected and unaddressed will spread. And while the relentless reporting of rape on a daily basis might seem like the cancer, it is actually the first flush of a cure.

As humanity takes notice it’s under attack by sinister phenomena, it is no longer satisfied with passively sitting by as rape after rape after rape occurs without restraint.

Some appendages of humanity, while not completely awake, are already beginning to show signs of life.

There is movement.

Humanity is stirring from its lethargy and an army of social activism is being assembled in retaliation against the river of human sludge that snakes its way throughout the internet, infecting humanity, spreading hate, inciting violence and ruining innocent lives.

Change is a foot.

But it is a painful change and it doesn’t take much effort to find the source of this pain. Do a quick Google News search and you will find a self-replenishing supply. Turn on the TV or stroll down the frigg’in street and chances are your brain will be sucker-punched with this repugnant information.

There is the seemingly endless stream of rape cases out of Pakistan, Afghanistan and India involving children and young women, such as the recent report of a 4-year-old who was lured with the promise of a banana and then ripped apart in a violent act of sexual assault. She was found hemorrhaging and later died of cardiac arrest.

The week before, there was a 5-year-old from New Delhi who met a similar fate. New Delhi was also the setting of a gang rape that ignited huge protests demanding something be done about the pandemic of violence against women and girls in India. The 23-year-old medical student was taken hostage on a bus and gang raped by six men in particularly gruesome and sadistic ways while the bus kept in motion. Her companion was beaten to near death. The bloodied twosome was eventually discarded on the side of the road and 2 weeks later the young victim died from her injuries. The family did not want her name released for fear of the shame it would bring the victim’s family.




On this continent, no one will soon forget the deeply disturbing, news-breaking story of Ariel Castro kidnapping, confining, torturing and raping three girls who he kept imprisoned in his Cleveland shack of a house – in the SAME neighborhood they were snatched from – over a TEN YEAR period. How does something like that go unnoticed when there were SO MANY indicators? This is the same insidious cancer referred to above.

It is as if humanity has been ignoring the signs of its disease. Healthy cells die while malignant tumors multiply.

Then there are the stories of sexual coercion and persecution that utilize social media in some way.

There is the story of a 12-year-old girl from New York who was raped at gunpoint by three teen boys, one of whom recorded the whole thing. The video was then shared on Facebook like trophy to be admired.

Facebook seems to come up a lot in these tales of horror.

The NY attack is just one in a vast library of instances where a gang rape has been recorded and then proudly shared on Facebook or You Tube as if the rapists had actually accomplished something worthy of praise and recognition. They do have half of that straight: their crimes ARE being recognized and it IS causing alarm and calls for justice.

As the war on rape wages in the US, with cases such as the Steubenville trial whereby two teenaged football players were found guilty of repeatedly raping a drugged 16-year-old girl at various parties throughout a single evening, in Canada 17-year-old, Rehtaeh Parsons, hung herself as a result of being raped at 15.

After the rape, Parsons was systematically shamed and harassed over the next two years, with the by now familiar custom of sharing images of the assault and engaging in rape-encouraging propaganda via the internet. Before Parsons, a similar fate became of Amanda Todd, who was painted with a virtual Scarlet letter and then mercilessly cyber-bullied until she too was pushed into suicide.

We could carry on with the stories, but there are too many – this blog would never conclude. My conscience would never be freed from the vice-like grip of the innumerable atrocities waiting to be discovered and the despair they are sure to induce.

But there is, I’ve discovered, an antidote for such despair in stories of protest, action and justice. These are the stories where the muted bystanders and the victims, the apathetic and the apologetic, the paralyzed and the indecisive begin to move and make noise. They stand up from their prostrate positions and say wait a minute, we’ve got something to say: Enough is enough.

This awakened outrage is seen in the protests of India where common people have been revolting against the tyranny of rape and violence towards women and children, letting their government know they will not stand idly by anymore.

We see the antidote in the groups and projects that spread awareness and take action around the world, such as Everyday Sexism and the Girl Effect, as well as the heroic efforts of the Global Fund for Women and Amnesty International, in addition to many more.

And while these entities are grand, noble necessary organizations that address large scale human rights issues and the legalities involved, the coolest part of the pushback against the rape culture movement is the boots on the ground stuff. These are the people who are not necessarily fighting to change laws – they are fighting to revolutionize the minds that make and support those laws. They are shifting our culture and it is exciting to be alive to witness this shift in motion.

But the best part of all are the rape jokes: